


With Shoes Like Those

by AidaRonan



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Begging, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Cock Warming, Cock and Ball Bondage, Dacryphilia, Dom Steve Rogers, Dom/sub, Don't Try This At Home, Drooling, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mild Asphyxiophilia, Mild Voyeurism, Object Penetration, Praise Kink, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rimming, Rope Bondage, Sex Worker Steve Rogers, Slutty Bucky Barnes, Spanking, Sub Bucky Barnes, gagging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2020-06-25 15:58:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19749001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AidaRonan/pseuds/AidaRonan
Summary: The guy at the bar can't rough Bucky up how he wants him to, but he knows someone who can. For a price.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sablier_bloque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sablier_bloque/gifts).



> A fic to thank sablier_bloque for donating to RAICES. Her prompt was simply "dom pre-serum Steve."
> 
> Also while this isn't 100% realistic, the going price for a (female) whore at the time was apparently $2-3 dollars. I figure since Steve is more of a specialty service that probably also takes more time to serve a customer, $5 is a justified starting point.
> 
> In other news, while researching whether or not briefs were around, I discovered that men in the Renaissance often walked around with their junk hanging out so there's a fun fact for no reason. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

Bucky feels like there are eyes in every dark corner, watching him, boring through his clothes and skin to judge his very soul. It’s his nerves, and he knows it, but his thoughts keep trying to convince him that someone will see him, figure out what direction he’s heading, and draw the line from there to his intentions for the evening.

He weaves his way through street, then alley, then street again—taking advantage of just how well he knows his cityscape backyard to throw off all those tails he doesn’t really have. This long after midnight on a work day, even the rats are in bed.

Outside of an apartment building that looks like it’s one stiff breeze from falling over, Bucky sucks down the last few drags of his cigarette and tosses it, scuffing it out with the heel of his shoe. His heart stops in his chest, then seems to realize it fell down on the job, kicking back up more rapidly than before to make up for lost time.

Third floor. Second on the left.

The words are etched into his brain, the very thought of them dredging up images of men dancing close together, the smell of cheap watered-down alcohol, two folks in dresses kissing in the corner. And they could’ve been two dames or two fellas or just two folks—either way, no one gave a shit.

The air of the alley cold against his bare flesh, a hand on his neck, the grip never tight enough no matter how much Bucky begged him to squeeze.

“ _I can’t give you what you really need, dollface, but I know someone who can.”_ An address whispered into his ear, a sloppy hand jerking him in his trousers anyway. Bucky’s head rolled back against the brick, his gentle sighs eaten up by the dark night sky and the low thrum of music bleeding through the walls.

“ _Third floor. Second on the left. He won’t look like much, but he’ll take good care of you, better care than I can, someone with needs like you got.”_

Something thick and hard pushing between Bucky’s hungry lips, ramming into his throat. Fingers fisted in his hair, then petting it after, after he swallowed down every drop of bitter salt.

“ _He’ll want money, but you’ve got it, don’t you? Look at the state of those shoes. Yeah, you’ve got it.”_

Bucky looks down at his shoes now. They aren’t his shiny fancy ones, the ones he has to wear when he meets his family down at the cathedral on Sundays lest his ma glare at him like he personally shot the savior. But he doesn’t have to patch them with cardboard or newspaper, and that says enough these days to anyone looking.

So does a guy like him being in front of a building like this, probably. There are those eyes again, feeling a little more real than before. He hurries for the door and up the staircase, his footfalls so loud in the quiet building.

On the third floor, he bypasses the first door then stops in front of the second. He wants to take a second to gather himself, but something in the back of his mind tells him it’s probably best not to linger.

Raising his hand, he raps three times on the door. Silence stretches on after that, long enough that Bucky knocks again.

“What in Christ’s-” The voice is hard to make out, muffled through the wood, but Bucky definitely hears it. It rockets his pulse up higher. What if, somehow, he got the wrong door? What if that guy at the bar was bullshitting him? What if-

The door pulls open, a blond scrap of a man standing just inside of it, half-buttoned white shirt hanging off his bony shoulders. There’s a pillow crease on one of his cheeks. He covers his mouth and yawns, blue eyes scanning Bucky’s body, assessing. They linger on his feet. Bucky glances left and right and starts to speak when the blond sighs loudly.

“Come on in,” Blondie says, stepping aside. “Just so you know, I’m charging you a dollar more for waking me up. In the future, I like to see my clients during hours when folks are actually meant to be awake.”

“Um.” Bucky steps inside, getting a good look at all 90 or so pounds of human being, at the thin bony legs that stick out under the shirt. This is the guy? The one who can give Bucky what he needs so desperately that he burns for it?

Blondie turns back around, his eyes narrowing on Bucky hovering just inside the doorway.

“Close the door and sit down,” he says. “I won’t tell you again.”

_Oh_.

Bucky blinks three times while his brain catches up to that and then pushes the door to before doing the latch. Two steps takes him to the rickety dining table comprised of a board thrown over the bath tub. He sits in the chair against the wall and folds his hands on top of the scored wood.

“I’m Steve.” Blondie yawns again and plops down across from Bucky.

“I’m-” Bucky hesitates.

“You can lie if you want, but keep in mind I can’t use your name if you don’t give it to me.”

Bucky looks down at his hands, moving his fingers just enough to watch the tendons dance beneath his skin.

“I’m Bucky.”

“Why are you here, Bucky?”

“I have money.”

“No shit.” Steve looks him over again. “Answer the question.”

“Fella I- I wanted him to rough me up some and he couldn’t, not like I wanted. He said he knew a guy who would for the right price.”

Steve smiles, finally awake enough to show an emotion. It’s a little smug and a lot feral. Bucky’s stomach tingles, heavy and warm.

“Base price is five for a session. Like I said, it’ll be another dollar for getting me out of bed. It’ll be another if you want me to do something that isn’t usually on the menu. It’ll be another still if I feel like it should be another, and I won’t argue with you about it neither. I’ll be up front, but you pay what I ask or you leave. Sound good to you, Bucky?”

“I understand.” Hell, Bucky’d pay a lot more than six bucks if Steve can really scratch all his itches.

“Do you know what you want?” Steve asks. “Did you have a specific idea in mind coming here?”

Bucky’s fingers twitch on the tabletop, craving the pack of Luckies in his pocket. He reaches for something else in his pocket instead, pulling out the tattered little magazine and smoothing out the edges. He slides it across the wood to Steve, cheeks scalding hot. Steve takes it, smiling down at the page.

“Looks like you’ve had this a while,” Steve says. “You subscribe?”

Bucky shakes his head.

“I found it. I didn’t mean to, but I did, and it’s goddamned ruined me.” He laughs humorlessly. “Before that got in my head and started rattling around, I could let a fella put his hands on me or stick it in, and that was enough. I’d take a gal out the next day, go to church, keep doing the dance like I’m supposed to. But now- let me tell ya, if I could find SR, I’d knock his block off.”

Steve tilts his head to the side, and now that Bucky has calmed down a fraction, he can finally appreciate that the guy’s pretty handsome. Adorable even in his thin white shirt with his sleep-mussed hair bent at odd angles. The way he’s looking at Bucky though—maybe there were never a thousand eyes on him at all. Maybe it was just his soul sensing the looming gaze Steve would be throwing at him in the very near future. Ma would slap him for even having the thought, but his Aunt Alina would nod knowingly, then talk about how his birthday means he’s always destined to be caught in currents so much bigger than he is.

Steve keeps staring, his long fingers spread over the lewd artwork, eyes boring into Bucky until he wants to squirm and beg and, okay, isn’t that exactly what he wanted someone to make him do? Something hot starts in his cheeks and travels along his veins and nerve endings to settle between his legs. He does squirm then, shifting in the chair.

“Will five, well six, be enough? For that.” Bucky speaks because he can’t stand it anymore.

“You want exactly this? Nothing else?”

“I mean, guess I’d like to, you know.”

“Ring the bell?”

“At some point, yeah. Would like it if you did too. Uh… I’ve always wanted a fella to, to-” Bucky scrubs a hand over his eyes. His fingers twitch again, but Steve doesn’t seem to mind waiting for Bucky to find his words. “I’ve always wanted someone to shoot their gun off on my face.”

Steve nods once, like a grocer adding “eggs” to Bucky’s order.

“Is that all?”

“And that.” Bucky nods at the art again, his jacket starting to feel like a furnace.

“Of course. So here’s the rules, Bucky. You do what I tell you to when I tell you to do it. If you don’t, well…” Steve smiles at him like he wants to eat him alive and air catches in Bucky’s windpipe. “You’ll regret it, and if you think I can’t wring some regret out of a fella even when he likes to be punished, you’re wrong.”

Bucky inhales a shaky breath and lets it out.

“I understand.”

“If I’m hurting you in a way that doesn’t feel good or if you want me to stop for any reason at all, it’s ‘Go Yankees.’ I don’t know about you, but it’s not something I’d ever say unless I was under extreme duress so it works pretty well. Still, I guess if you have a tendency to cheer on that bunch’a assholes while you’re kicking the beam, we can come up with something else.”

“No, that- I’ve got it. I’m not repeating it because of religious reasons, but I’ll use it if I gotta.”

Steve laughs.

“Alright, Buck. We’ll stick with six then. Leave the money on the table and undress, then come join me. Take as long as you need.” Steve walks through the doorway into his shoebox bedroom, giving Bucky some semblance of privacy even though there are windows built into the walls.

Bucky counts and recounts six bills and sets them dead center of the wooden table. He touches the pack of cigarettes tucked into his jacket and then pulls it off, draping it over the back of the chair. He kicks off his shoes next and peels off his socks. His shirt buttons are the most difficult to work on, his fingers trembling while he tries not to watch Steve, bent ass-up over a trunk he’s pulled from under his bed. Finally Bucky loses the shirt, and his pants and undershirt seem like a breeze after that. He folds them all and lays them delicately on the chair.

“Everything,” Steve says firmly, and Bucky nods and fumbles open the buttons on his shorts, folding them neatly in half.

When he finally slips through the weathered doorway, his breath comes out in a long, ragged exhale. Steve has taken the top sheet and blanket away, and there are several lengths of rope sitting on top of the mattress, like jute flower bulbs lying haphazard in a garden, just waiting to be planted. On the night stand, Steve has placed a rubber and a small tin of vaseline. Bucky’s cock twitches and wells out a bead of pre-come.

“Lie face-down,” Steve says, a palm firm against Bucky’s spine. Steve rams his own pillows under Bucky’s chest, and Bucky feels so exposed with his ass right up in the air. There can’t be anything left to the imagination like that, not like in the dark alleys and dimly-lit bathrooms. No, here in his bedroom, Steve can see every filthy inch of him.

“You’ve got a pretty little hole, Buck. It’s gonna be fun seeing how wide it’ll go.”

Bucky’s hips twitch, the need to grind down into the mattress like train wheels screeching in his brain. He starts to, and one of Steve’s hands promptly lands on his ass. He hears the sound before he registers the sting of it, the smack feeling dangerously loud in a place where Bucky has to guess the walls are paper thin.

“Won’t somebody hear?” Bucky asks, suddenly very concerned.

“Yes. Fella next door will. He’ll also put his hand down his shorts and then come see me in the morning to beg me to put my whole fist up inside him. Don’t worry about it. You’re as safe here as someone like us can be,” Steve says. “By the way, how good you feel tonight is all up to me, Buck. Don’t try rubbing off against my sheets again, or I’ll have to figure out some way to make you pay for it.”

“I understand.”

“Good boy.”

The train-wheel-screeching gets infinitely louder, and Christ, having to force his jerking hips not to push down, down, down. Bucky bites into his lower lip.

“Hands behind your back.”

Bucky complies, pushing both arms around and resting his hands on either side of his spine, his body weight shifting onto his supported chest and shoulders. Slowly and with Bucky feeling every rough catch of the rope on his wrists, Steve winds his hands together, loop after loop after loop making Bucky’s whole being feel like it’s floating down a river he has no control over at all.

“Not too tight?” Steve asks.

“No. It’s… God, Steve.” And somewhere in the sound of his own trembling voice, Bucky becomes aware of the fact that he’s shaking. There must be a puddle of want on Steve’s sheets by now, his whole body begging to get fucked.

It’s then that he thinks of the blue magazine on Steve’s table and what he’d actually asked for. Steve’s thumb gently presses against his hole, massaging and lighting up all of Bucky’s nerve endings. He wants to stop him, wants to cheer on the goddamn Yankees and tell Steve that he changed his mind, that he can’t wait anymore for Steve to do _that._ But it’s what he came here for and if he doesn’t, he’ll regret it.

Steve keeps massaging, thumb moving in even-pressured circles until Bucky can’t manage to inhale or exhale a single steady breath.

“Steve.” It comes out like a whine.

“I gotta tell you, you might be the prettiest thing that’s ever walked through my door, Buck. And look at you, going to pieces and I haven’t done a thing to ya. Just a little rope and a thumb on your gorgeous tight hole and you’re a mess. Is that all it takes to get you heated?”

Bucky squirms, and then there’s something wet where Steve’s thumb used to be, something warm and soft and slick and- _Oh, sweet Christ_.

Steve hums the way Bucky does when he tastes a perfect apple pie or a fall-apart roast. The sound vibrates against Bucky’s skin, tickles every single nerve that hides there beneath the surface. It’s like a thousand points of lightning all striking in one concentrated spot, and Bucky feels like Thor himself came down from the heavens and punched him in the chest.

“Steve, fuck.” 

Like a summer rain, it’s over as quickly as it came, leaving behind very little but the humidity that hovers heavy around Bucky’s face—all sweat and moisture from his panting breaths.

Steve dismounts the bed, and Bucky turns his head to watch him, the button-down hiding everything from the thighs up.

“Steve, could I ask if- Would you please- Am I allowed to- Aw, fuck.”

“Spit it out, Buck.”

“Could you at least unbutton it? It’s-”

Steve looks down at the shirt hanging off one shoulder. Bucky has the sudden thought that it’s probably not even Steve’s. Maybe it’s a boyfriend’s. Maybe some fella left it here after Steve wrung the life out of him—too far gone to remember to grab his own clothes.

“Sure, Buck. How can I say no to puppy dog eyes like those?” He moves from collar to hem, fingers so fast and deft that Bucky’s brain goes crooked, like a street car taking a turn just a little too fast. All too suddenly, Bucky remembers to be careful what you ask for. Faced with the pale swaths of skin that are Steve’s chest and torso and with his tiny pert nipples, Bucky wants to weep. Steve looks like a porcelain doll, all fragile and bird-boned. He looks like something Bucky should tuck under his arm and keep safe from the big, ugly world.

Oh he _looks_ it, but he’s pulling things out of his trunk again, making Bucky’s mouth go dry, his eyes wide as the moon.

“Do you think you could?” Steve asks, holding up his left hand, the bigger of two phalluses held aloft. Something on Bucky’s face must answer the question for him, because Steve mumbles, “yeah, maybe some other time, huh?” and chooses the smaller of the two. It’s a relief for the time being, but Bucky wants to come back, wants to learn to fit the other one.

It’s a fleeting thought for the time being, the idea chased away by Steve’s mouth pressing against his entrance again, tongue wet and searing hot. He licks and licks, pushing it inside of him. He’s like a demolitions expert, taking Bucky apart slowly with every lick. Soon there won’t be anything left, just a writhing mass of sobbing want and a hole needing to be filled.

“Steve, please, Christ. I’m... please put it in me. I need…”

“Jeez, you’re gorgeous when you beg. Listen to you.” Steve runs his tongue in a teasing line from Bucky’s balls to the small of his back, then bites down hard on one of Bucky’s cheeks, tearing a sob out of his lungs. Bucky’s hands twitch uselessly behind his back.

The vaseline is so warm on Bucky’s skin that it takes him several seconds to realize it’s not Steve’s mouth anymore. His eyes dart to the bedside table, the tin gone from where it once sat next to the single rubber still sitting there on the rickety wood. At this rate, Steve might not even use it, but that’s okay.

The slick, Bucky realizes, is warm because it was against Steve’s skin. Whether he put it down his briefs or had it gripped tight in his hand, it’s still his body heat he’s smearing against him. Something about that makes Bucky’s thoughts swim, a school of fish scattering in a million different directions.

The thing is, it’s not like Bucky’s never been with a fella. It’s not like he hasn’t had fingers and cocks inside of him. But when Steve’s thumb breaches him, he feels like it’s the first time anything ever has. Every other sweaty body falls from his memories, unimportant next to that single minute stretch.

That one, little bitty, fucking teasing goddamned stretch.

“Steve, please.”

“Just getting you good and wet, Bucky,” Steve says, pulling his thumb out and replacing with something longer.

“Please,” Bucky repeats hoarsely.

“Won’t be long now,” he says, pressing his finger against Bucky’s prostate with a relentless amount of pressure, enough to make him swear and squirm. Steve doesn’t let up though, pushing and pushing, forcing the pressure to mount inside of him until Bucky’s trying to crawl up the bed to get away. He doesn’t let him, hooking an arm around the front of his thighs and holding him in place. His free hand smacks across the back of Bucky’s left leg.

“Behave or I’ll rope your ankles too, Bucky.”

Bucky sobs out something unintelligible and Steve gives him another smack on the exact same spot, the sting more intense the second time, the back of his thigh growing hot.

“Do you understand, Bucky?”

A third slap when he takes too long to answer.

“I do,” Bucky chokes out, his throat feeling raw, and Steve finally pulls his finger free of him. Bucky feels like taffy caught between two trains heading in opposite directions. His cock is so hard that it hurts. But hell if he doesn’t want more.

The head of the phallus is cold, the glass a stark contrast to the warmth of Steve’s hands. After the vaseline, Bucky has to think that’s an intentional choice. Or he would think it if he could think a damn thing at all. Steve pushes it with a steady pressure while Bucky’s body resists. He doesn’t let up until it pops past the rim and starts sinking inside of him.

The stretch is such a relief that Bucky moans obscenely.

“Yeah? Feels real good having something in you, huh?”

Bucky opens his mouth to answer when Steve pulls the toy out and pushes it back in, the angle just right to make him writhe like a snake on hot coals.

“Oh Christ.”

“This how you imagined it, Buck?” Steve asks, picking up the pace. Bucky can hear it now, the slick wetness of it moving in and out of him. Water leaks out of his eyes, dripping onto Steve’s bedclothes.

“Steve, I need to.”

“No.”

Faster now. Steve grabs hold of Bucky’s ropes with his free hand like the reins of a horse, using this grip for leverage so he can go at him even more relentlessly. And thank Christ Bucky doesn’t have to be quiet, because he’s not capable of even thinking about how to do that, let alone capable of actually pulling it off. If Steve keeps it up, he’ll scream the whole wretched building down by dawn.

“Steve please, I-”

“No.” Steve says it more aggressively, and Bucky feels stripped down, reduced to nothing but a rambling stream of fucked-out pleas. They pour from his lips like water from a fountain, repeating over and over.

“Please, please, please, oh Christ, Steve, please.”

It’s a song almost, rhythmic. Some part of him has maybe even left his body to dance to it, the rest of him shaking along to the beat, his chest and back shaking, hands twitching uselessly, wishing they could do anything to help move things along.

His hips stutter forward and every last functioning braincell he has forces them to stop.

“Oh sweetheart, you need it so bad.”

“Please.” The sheets beneath his face are soaked with tears and sweat.

“I’ve got you,” Steve says, and he lets go of Bucky’s ropes. Whatever else goes on, it doesn’t matter. All that’s important is that one moment Bucky’s body is begging for friction, and the next, Steve’s hand is around him, those skilled fingers moving from base to tip. Bucky cries out in an instant, the sound ripped from him like lightning ripping thunder from the sky. He comes and comes, all over Steve’s bed. He has one fleeting moment of clarity to feel bad about that before he loses it again, crying Steve’s name while he wrings every last possible drop of come out of him.

He doesn’t stop until Bucky’s sobbing.

The ropes come undone easily, one or two flicks of Steve’s fingers undoing the entire knot.

“Come on, gorgeous, on your side.”

Bucky rolls, lets Steve shove a pillow beneath his sweaty head.

“Sorry,” Bucky slurs out, smiling at him. Steve doesn’t say a word, just shoves his briefs down and pulls out his own erection. Bucky’s eyes get bigger. Steve has a really pretty dick—average sized, uncut, perfectly-shaped, and nestled in a mound of dark blond curls.

“Suck that someday,” Bucky says, completely out of it.

“You still want me to shoot off on your face?” Steve asks, reaching forward to push Bucky’s sweat-laden curls back. It’s unexpectedly tender, but he’s okay with it, would be too gone to care even if he wasn’t.

“Want you to finish. Wherever you want.”

Steve wraps his hand around himself, strokes a few times, and bites his lip.

“Better close those pretty blue eyes, sweetheart,” he grits out, and Bucky does. Steve comes with a surprisingly delicate groan, warm drops landing on Bucky’s cheeks and forehead. A single bead lands close enough to Bucky’s lips that he has to dart his tongue out to taste it. He wipes another off his eyelid with his thumb and licks it clean before looking at Steve again, panting over him, his pale chest gleaming with perspiration.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, voice raw and fucked-out.

“Here.” Steve wipes his face with the tails of the shirt. “Catch your breath. I’ll grab you some water.”

He’s real sweet for a few minutes after that, encouraging Bucky to sip from a chipped cup. They go through the evening next, Steve recounting everything he did to him blow-by-blow.

“Anything you didn’t like, tell me, and I’ll never do it again.”

Bucky doesn’t have a thing to say to that.

Finally, after Steve makes him finish the water, Bucky moves back into the other room. While he dresses, Steve picks up the bills on the table and counts them once, then again to find two stubborn bills stuck together.

“You want anything else for that in there?” Bucky asks. “I’d pay it.”

“Actually, I was just wondering if you still wanna knock my block off.” Steve has the magazine in his hand now, carefully closing it and returning it to Bucky’s possession.

“If I…” Bucky’s brow furrows and he rewinds the evening. When had he…? “Fuck. You’re yanking my chain.”

“That’s an old one.” Steve moves to a makeshift shelf in the corner and pulls out stack of papers, leafing through them and plucking out a single sheaf. He folds it in half and then in quarters and tucks it into Bucky’s palm. “Here’s something newer. Maybe some inspiration for the next time you stop by.”

Bucky’s all the way back home in his own apartment before he pulls the drawing from his inside pocket. He unfolds it carefully, his first look at the art making him feel a lot like a horse has kicked him in the chest.

A slow smile spreads across his face. He unbuttons his pants.


	2. Warm Me Up, Buttercup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second part coming at you (203843 months late) as a thank you to Anita for her donation to ActBlue's "Kids at the Border" fund. 
> 
> **!!Tags updated for new content!!**
> 
> This should go without saying but am gonna say it anyway... This is porn and not a how-to guide. A lot can go wrong with bondage, especially c&b bondage. Please do proper research if you're gonna play.

If it were up to Bucky, he would’ve been back around at Steve’s the second the sun painted the Brooklyn sky blue. Money or not though, he still has to work for it, holed up in an office at the Brooklyn Navy Yard from 8-5 daily.

Bucky is an architect by education and a whiz at sums, which makes him a perfect fit to interpret the ship designs they’re commissioned to build. He’s not the only one—there are others who help direct the labor at the actual build sites, but Bucky breaks down the designs and figures out just how many men they’ll need for how often and how long. It’s a combination of geometry, analysis, accounting, and statistics that he loves dearly, even when the hours get boring and long.

But today he can barely focus for the light soreness between his thighs, for the hint of rope burn when the wrists of his starched sleeves hit his skin just so.

He fucks up number after number, swearing quietly when his double-checks don’t match, tossing scrap page after scrap page into the wastebasket.

By lunch, he’s already planning to cut straight to Steve’s ramshackle building after work. By 2 p.m., he’s telling his secretary he’s not there if anyone comes in and locking the door of his office. Pants around his knees at his desk, he strokes himself off into his handkerchief, biting his palm to keep from crying out Steve’s name.

He manages to get some work done after that, just barely. And he’s hard again by the time the work day ends, spending several extra minutes in his office to talk his cock down before he dares to leave.

Straight to Steve’s, his feet winding through familiar streets, doubling back once or twice just in case (of what, he doesn’t know). The shitty little tenement looks even worse in the fading daylight, and Bucky feels like the proverbial sore thumb standing out front.

He crosses the street quickly and dips inside. There’s a woman casually lounging in the stairwell in a simple blue dress, smoking a cigarette.

“You lost, darlin?” she asks, blowing out a stream of smoke.

“Just visiting a cousin,” Bucky lies.

“Sure thing, doll,” she says in a way that suggests she doesn’t believe him any farther than Bill Bergen could hit a baseball. “And I’m auditioning for a picture.”

“I believe it. Anybody ever tell you you got a face a bit like Carole Lombard?” he asks with a grin, that one that always gets him a dance or three when he goes out to the halls.

She nods. “And tits like Jean Harlow.” 

Bucky throws his head back and laughs, his voice echoing up the stairwell. “Jeez, lady.”

“You be good to that cousin of yours now,” she calls after him when he continues up.

“You got it, Ms. Lombard.”

When Steve opens the door for him, he looks at Bucky and raises a delicate eyebrow.

“Back already?” he asks. He’s dressed a lot more normal in the late afternoon than he was in the middle of the night, wearing trousers with suspenders, though they’re hanging off his shoulders and his shirt is ruffled and untucked, the top few buttons loose and exposing a bit of collarbone. Bucky wonders if he had someone in his place earlier. He did mention the neighbor.

Bucky’s not jealous. Can’t get jealous of a fella who makes time for a living for doing what he does.

Okay, so he’s a little tiny bit jealous. But at least he realizes it’s kind of ridiculous.

“Yeah, well, told you I was ruined already and you went and made it worse.” Bucky shrugs.

“Sit down, Bucky,” Steve says firmly, sending a jolt of desire right through Bucky’s cock. Bucky obediently falls into a chair, folding his hands together atop the bathtub-table and worrying one thumb over his knuckles. “Did you like the drawing I gave you?” Steve asks.

“I’ve had it off with myself twice already, so you tell me.”

“No, actually, you tell me. I asked you an easy enough question,” Steve says, blue eyes so sharp Bucky feels like they might go right through him. “You’ll answer it. Yes or no.”

Like he suddenly got hit by an invisible truck full of Macy’s balloons, Bucky’s whole body instantly goes both weightless and heavy all at once, his pulse kicking up into his throat like it’s trying to escape.

“Yes,” Bucky breathes. “Was hoping…”

“I bet you were,” Steve says. “Here’s the thing. I just had a gal in here about half an hour ago.”

“You do dames too?” Bucky asks, surprised. The way he’d always seen the world, a dame who wanted a fella to fuck her could get one easy as a stray could pick up fleas. But maybe, well, maybe there were dames who had needs like Bucky’s. Things they felt they couldn’t ask for or couldn’t get done right by just anybody. Or maybe he was just wrong about the world.

Wouldn’t be the first time.

“A couple.” Steve shrugs. “I guess if you’re gonna be coming around more than just the once, and it seems like you are-”

“I am.” Bucky knows that much. He hopes eventually he’ll be sated and free to go back to the way things were once, but he doesn’t see it happening soon. Really, he needs to run some numbers of his own when he gets home and can actually think straight. As much as he does pretty well with money, it’d also be pretty tough to explain financially ruining himself just to have some fella put it to him a few nights a week.

“Well,” Steve starts, “I guess it’s not a secret by looking at me that I’m not some big, strapping guy down by the docks who can bend you over a crate and fuck you and then take you another three times in a row if you want me to.”

“You’re spent.” Bucky’s shoulders slump.

“Now hold on, I can still take you on,” Steve says. “I’ve got an idea or two about how to get started. But I also need you to know that some days, I won’t have it in me. If you’re comfortable, you can call first. There’s a phone downstairs. Everyone here looks the other way on everyone else’s business and no one asks too many questions. But if you aren’t, well, you’ll have to know a day will come when I’ll probably have to turn you away. If you’d like the names of some other guys or gals who do what I do and-”

“No,” Bucky blurts, the very thought of giving up Steve for someone else making his pulse kick up even harder than earlier. “No one can do what you do,” he says, and he’s sure of it down to cores of his bones. Bucky takes a deep breath, calming down that anxious part of his brain that’s terrified of losing this thing he needs so bad when he’s barely even had it. “You’re a person and not a machine, Steve. I can live with that.”

“Then stand up and take off your clothes. I’ll go get started.”

“You…” Bucky inhales, exhales. “You can watch if you want. I don’t mind.”

Steve smiles warmly.

“I know I’m giving the orders here, Bucky, but you’re still allowed to tell me if you want something.”

“I want you to watch me,” Bucky admits, shrugging off his jacket.

Steve sinks back down into a chair, crossing one bony leg over the other. “Yeah, okay. You want me to tell you what a good boy you’re being too? How pretty you are?” he asks. “Want me to tell you how to do it?”

Bucky can hear his own breath starting to tremble at the edges, like the low rumble of a nearby streetcar—still out of sight but fast approaching.

“Please,” he says, his voice cracking. Steve runs his eyes down him slowly, taking in every single inch like it’s his job to personally catalog it.

“Untuck your shirt and untie your tie,” Steve says, and Bucky obeys, whipping his tie off and putting it on the table. “That’s a good boy, Bucky, so good.”  
  
Bucky shivers and shifts from one foot to the other under the weight of Steve’s eyes.   
  
“Now I’m gonna count to six. One button for each number, got it? One.”

Bucky starts at the button closest to his throat.

“Knew you were smart,” Steve says, licking his lips. “That’s it. Two.”

Bucky can hardly get the button through the hole for how his fingers are trembling, but he does it. Steve doesn’t say anything this time, dipping his chin just a little in approval. “Three.”

Half of Bucky’s undershirt is on display by now, his chest heaving beneath the thin cotton. He’s hard as a goddamned steel girder too when Steve says, “Four.”

Two buttons left. Steve moves to speak, and Bucky swears he might pass out from wondering if it’ll be another number, another round of praise, or something else.

“Barely naked and look at you, so gorgeous,” Steve says. “Hard to believe no one’s ever roughed you up before with that face and body of yours both just begging to get torn apart.”

“Jesus,” Bucky gasps, his chest heaving. Steve smirks like an asshole.

“Five.”

Steve shifts in his seat, putting both feet flat on the floor and letting his legs spread apart in a way that just screams dominance even coming from his tiny frame. Bucky wants to kneel by his feet, to-

“Six,” Steve says. “There it is, Bucky. Now go on and pull it off. Your undershirt too. Perfect. Bunch of fellas should get together and come all over that chest of yours.”

Bucky’s eyes go wide.

“Would you like bein’ used like that, Bucky?” Steve asks. “Or maybe just me, huh? Just my medicine all over your skin.”

Bucky can’t answer, his brain flashing back and forth between Steve surrounded by other faceless men and Steve all by his lonesome. Come everywhere and Bucky like the canvas in some abstract painting. His lips move, but nothing comes out.

“Show me your cock,” Steve says. “It was real pretty too if I remember right.”

Bucky undoes his trousers and the buttons on his shorts, keeping his eyes on Steve to make sure this is what he means when he fishes out his erection. So hard. So pink. So wet.   
  
Steve nods.

“It is pretty. I’m gonna make it even prettier,” he says, standing up. “Finish stripping, then stay right where you are.”

He leaves the room, Bucky removing the rest of his clothes and his shoes, making another neat pile on the chair. He’s tempted, so tempted, to rub his cock. Instead, he clasps his hands behind his back, feeling exposed, even more so when Steve comes back with rope and ribbon and… art supplies?

Steve sets them on the wooden tabletop next to Bucky’s tie, pulling a long string of bright red ribbon out of the mess. “Come here, gorgeous,” Steve says, and Bucky steps forward. He doesn’t know what to expect when Steve grabs hold of him, Bucky’s breath catching erratically at even the slightest touch on his cock.

He watches Steve lift his balls with almost hospital-like precision, slowly winding the ribbon underneath them and around the base of his erection.

“If you like this, I’ll use rope next time. Tie it tighter,” Steve says, continuing to circle him with the bright red ribbon. “Consider this a test. If you decide you don’t like it tonight, well, you know what team to cheer on.”

Bucky nods, watching him circle his balls with the ribbon, going around and between each of them in little figure eights.

“Deep breaths, Bucky. In and out. There’s a good boy.”

Bucky breathes, watching Steve crisscross the ribbon up and down his shaft, then tie it all off in a pretty little bow beneath the head, like a present on Christmas morning.

“Everything feel okay?” Steve asks, giving his cock a few slow, too-loose strokes that make Bucky whimper quietly in the back of his throat. “I need words, Bucky.”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

“Good.” Steve smiles, rewarding Bucky with a few firmer jerks, the ribbon sliding across his skin in ways that Bucky never could’ve imagined. It takes all of Bucky’s willpower to hold his hips still, even more so when Steve stops again. “Turn around.”

Bucky rotates, turning his head to watch Steve pick up a length of rope. Around his wrists like last time, but also up his forearms and biceps too.

“On your knees,” Steve says, and Bucky carefully kneels, Steve’s hands finding him here and there to help keep him steady. Steve selects another length of rope and moves behind him, looping it around Bucky’s ankles. “Everything feel good? Nothing too tight?”

“Good,” Bucky manages, nearly coming all over himself when Steve binds both sets of ropes together, Bucky’s ankles and wrists all one continuous line that means Bucky has no choice but to stay on his knees.

Steve takes his seat again and undoes his trousers, pulling out his cock. It’s not hard, and Bucky has to bite back a bit of disappointment at that. He knew it wouldn’t be. He knows why. It’s got nothing to do with him. Steve shifts the chair closer, leans over and reaches for some of the rope near his shoulder blades, encouraging Bucky to knee walk forward.

“There you go, Bucky. Come a little closer. Keep coming.”

When Steve seems satisfied, he takes Bucky’s face in his hands and holds it, dipping his thumbs between Bucky’s lips and pulling the sides of his mouth toward his ears.

“Here’s the deal,” Steve says. “I have some art I gotta do. Deadlines, you know. You’re gonna model for me. I won’t use your face, promise.”

“Okay,” Bucky says, though he feels a little like he might pass out. Even the concept of being in one of Steve’s drawings, one of the things that makes Bucky’s cock weep like a tapped tree—it’s almost too much.

“Put your mouth on me,” Steve says. “But only that. I’ll tell you when, if ever, I want you to suck me. Otherwise, you stay there with your mouth full, still and quiet while I work.”

“I understand,” Bucky says.

“If you do that, if you’re good for me, I’ll give you what you came here for.” Steve slides his fingers through Bucky’s hair, then grabs hold of several of his short curls in a way that sets his whole scalp on fire. “Come on, open up.”

Bucky parts his lips, lets Steve force his face onto him, his soft cock sliding across his tongue. Bucky’s nose hits Steve’s dark golden curls quickly without much to stand in his way.

There’s an urge there, to suck and tongue at Steve, to feel him grow hard in his mouth. Or at least to make him feel good if he can’t get him erect. He’s had guys like that before, fellas who couldn’t get it up but were content to let Bucky suck them soft just for how good it felt. 

But Bucky has his orders now. He stays perfectly still, listening to the rustle of Steve’s movements above him. He can’t see, not the way the ropes and the angle have him twisted, and his entire world narrows to his full mouth, to the strain of the ties on his body, to his own erection and how the ribbons make it feel, to the gentle scratch of pencil on paper.

Time loses all meaning. He could owe Steve ten dollars or ten thousand. He doesn’t know anymore. It doesn’t matter. Take his life savings and his retirement fund and the shiny black car he only drives a few times a month. Just let him have this.

Scratch, scratch, scratch. The wooden tabletop wobbles on the bath tub when Steve erases something, his delicate hands swishing across the paper to wipe away the dust.

“You’re doing so, so good, Bucky,” he says after a long while, his blunt fingernails raking gently along Bucky’s scalp. “And what a pretty picture you make. Maybe that’s what you do to earn all that money. You a model, Bucky?”

Bucky doesn’t answer, gets the feeling he’s not even supposed to. Steve’s pencils keep flowing, Bucky breathing steady in and out of his nose, the heady musk of Steve filling his lungs, drool dripping steadily down his chin and pooling on the chair.

He thinks, maybe, that his mouth feels a little more full than it had at the start. He shifts his weight from one knee to the other, the ropes straining his shoulders in a way that blurs the line between pain and enjoyment.

“Bucky,” Steve says softly. It finally registers that his pencils have been quiet for several seconds when he says, “Suck me.”

Bucky pulls himself out of the haze to do as he’s told, moving his mouth up and down Steve’s soft cock, humming and moaning around it, his shoulders and back and neck protesting every movement in a way that has his cock leaking.

Steve grows hard quickly, until Bucky can no longer feel his curls against his nose without a lot of effort and concentration. Above him, Steve moans softly.

“God, Bucky, you’re good at that,” he says. “That’s it. Take it deep, deeper, c’mon now, all the way.” Steve holds his head on him until Bucky’s lungs burn, and then he lets him up, Bucky pulling off and gasping for air, tears welling in his eyes. “Oh, isn’t that pretty? You wanna do it again? Get those gorgeous cheeks stained with tears?”

Bucky nods enthusiastically even while he takes massive gulps of air. Steves fingers tangle in his hair again, using his short curls like reigns.

“Open that nice little mouth, Bucky.” Steve hooks his fingers in again, pulling Bucky’s lips in opposite directions, his cock pressing insistently against them and then sliding all the way in, right into Bucky’s throat. Bucky can’t breathe again. Steve keeps him there until Bucky starts scrabbling against his ropes. There’s drool everywhere when Steve yanks him off. Bucky can feel it, damp on his lips and chin and chest. He blinks, tears falling down onto the apples of his cheeks and running down and off his chin to mingle with the rest of the mess they’ve made so far.

“I think that’s enough,” Steve says, petting Bucky’s hair while he catches his breath. “Let’s get you what you came here for, huh?”

“Please,” Bucky says, his voice ragged and broken. Slowly, Steve slides from the chair.

“I could take you right here on the floor.” Steve’s fingers work at the knots on his ropes. Like last time, they come undone easy. Bucky sighs at the release of pressure on his muscles and joints, folding his arms on the chair and leaning against it. Behind him, Steve’s fingertips dance up and down his back.

Bucky recognizes the moment for what it is—a breath—and he takes it, greedy as he is for more.

“On your feet,” Steve says eventually, hooking an arm under one of Bucky’s. He’s left the ropes wound around Bucky’s wrists and ankles, trailing off of him like marionette strings. Steve re-binds his wrists together—to the front this time—and grabs hold, using them to lead Bucky into the bedroom.

It’s dark now, night having fallen in the time Bucky knelt between Steve’s legs. The metal bars framing Steve’s bed catch the yellowy light filtering in through the window from the kitchen. Steve lays him down on the mattress, choosing to light a small gas lamp instead of turning on a light. His hair glows even more gold.

“You still want what I put in that drawing?” Steve asks, softly trailing his fingers up and down Bucky’s torso, that touch alone enough to encourage Bucky’s cock back to full attention, straining against the ribbon—the red a deep crimson in the firelight.

“Yes.”

Steve undresses first, unveiling the angular planes of his body, the smattering of dark blond hair leading down from his belly button to his hard, uncut cock. He can’t help staring at it now that they’re to this part of the evening. It’ll be inside of him soon.

“Grab your ankles,” Steve says, and Bucky does so, holding them up while Steve takes the ropes and pulls them through the bars on his bed, using them to leverage Bucky’s ankles up higher and higher on either side of his head. “Now grab the frame, wrists together.” Bucky winds his fingers around one of the metal rods, and Steve weaves the jute through and around before stepping back to look at his handiwork.

Bucky can’t see himself, but if his memory of the drawing and the air against his skin are any indications, he’s completely exposed, his ankles and wrists almost all the way behind his head.

This time, when Steve gets lubricant and a rubber, he pulls them onto the bed with him, settling naked right against where Bucky’s asshole sits, visible and ready. Bucky strains his neck to see Steve roll the rubber on, then follow it with generous amounts of slick, rubbing the excess right on Bucky’s own waiting pucker.

“You’re a lot prettier than the model I used for that drawing,” Steve says, his voice pitched lower than it’s got any right to be in a guy his size (or in a guy any size for that matter). “Makes me wanna do it over. Maybe in color for you. The light in here’s not quite right to get that pretty pink color between your legs, but I remember it well enough from last time.”

“Christ, Steve.”

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he says. “I’m gonna slip it in hard and take it out harder. You’re mine, Bucky, mine to do whatever I want to you, and that’s exactly what I want. To lay more pipe than the corps of engineers right in your needy little fuckhole.”

Bucky gasps, half at Steve’s words, half at the feeling of him already pushing in. It’s abundantly clear that he knows what he’s doing, his pace the perfect balance between slow enough that he doesn’t do damage, and fast enough that it aches so good.

There’s always a point where Bucky’s body stops resisting, like a street fight where one guy finally decides to go down and stay down. Steve’s won the fight today, sliding deep inside of Bucky with a shuddering little grunt that makes Bucky’s body tingle, especially paired with the delicate flutter of Steve’s long, lovely eyelashes.

“Knew you’d feel good, Buck,” Steve says, his unusually large hands gripping the backs of Bucky’s thighs. “Like a bath after a long day. So hot and wet that you never wanna leave it.” Bucky watches him, his body rolling sensually with one slow thrust, and then another.

“Steve,” Bucky says hoarsely. “Please.”

“Oh, are you gonna beg to get fucked hard? You beg so pretty too.” Steve slips in slow, then out even slower, the slide a snail’s pace that has Bucky reeling with need. “Let’s hear it. Tell me how much you need this cock, Buck.”

Bucky locks eyes with Steve, his pupils nearly swallowing the irises of his eyes in the dim light. The shadows on his face are set even deeper like this, his cheekbones high and sharp. And in that moment, Bucky wants, oh Christ, he _wants._ To kiss along those, to-  
  
He shakes it off.

“Thought you said you were gonna fuck me hard,” Bucky says. “Something about the corps of engineers.”

Bucky hears the loud smack of skin on skin before the sting of Steve slapping the back of his thigh even registers, his skin instantly warming and prickling with it. And God, he can’t help it. His cock twitches at that, a quiet whimper bubbling up in the back of his throat.

“Do as you're told,” Steve says, his already low voice dropping lower and crawling its way up Bucky’s spine. Bucky squirms in the ropes, Steve’s hand softly rubbing over where he’d just laid on a lick. “You’ve got five seconds to start begging. Five… four…”

Bucky can’t decide if he wants to. He wants Steve to smack him again. No, he wants Steve’s dick more. Does he? Steve would hit him again anyway if he asked, wouldn’t he? He just needs to…

“Two…”

“Please,” Bucky says softly. “Please I need it rough as you can give it, Stevie. You want me to beg? I’m begging. Give me every hard inch of you like the only thing my body’s good for is takin’ you in. But-” Bucky bites his lip. “You said I ask if I wanted something. Keep spankin’ me?”

Steve’s lips move up slowly until the grin on his face is almost feral. “You are,” he starts, his hand moving in teasing circles on Bucky’s other thigh, his hips picking up the pace, “a very good boy, Bucky.”

The next slap echoes off the walls, Steve following it with a hard thrust all the way in. And Bucky swears he doesn’t just see stars. He sees entire constellations. There’s the big dipper. The little dipper. Now Orion’s unbuckling his belt and-

Another slap. Another rough thrust. As though one action is the inevitable cause of the other. A stone thrown in the pond that ripples and ripples and ripples. The backs of Bucky’s thighs sting beautifully. And he’s gonna come soon. It’s too much like this—the bite of Steve’s hands and the angle the ropes have him in and-

“Oh, oh fuck.” Bucky’s fingers clench and unclench, and he wishes he could dig them into anything. The sheets. His own skin. Steve’s back.

Steve’s fucking him properly now, like he’d promised to, his hips slapping against Bucky’s ass while his hands alternate between one thigh and the other. It takes Bucky a few glorious seconds to realize he’s shaking, his arms and legs trembling. Steve’s noticed too, his hands grabbing hold again.

“You okay, Bucky?” he asks, the tone of his voice momentarily going softer.

“Yeah, I think. Gonna-”

Steve smiles, then grips Bucky’s thighs tighter. “Be a good boy and ask me if you can, and maybe I’ll help you out.”

Bucky wants to. He does.

It’s just hard to- Words are- What are they?

The sounds of slick friction and skin on skin. An orgasm teetering right on the brink.

“Please,” Bucky finally chokes out. “Come?”

“Come on, my good good boy,” Steve says, his pretty pale forehead glistening with golden sweat, “you can manage a full sentence for me, can’t you? I’ll even help you out. ‘Please, Steve, can I come all over myself?’”

Bucky nods.

“Please Steve, can- oh God.”

“Almost there. Try again.”

Bucky whines in the back of his throat. Christ, he needs- He’s so-

“Steve, please. Can I come?”

“Where?”

Where? Where…? Fuck, he knows this.

“All over me? Can I come all over me? Please, Stevie, I’m begging.”

“That’ll work, Buck,” Steve says, soothing. “That’s it, gorgeous.”

Bucky grins, the entire world hazy and good.

And then Steve’s hand wraps around him, stroking gently, the ribbons shifting against his skin. It’s enough. It’s so very enough.

“Oh,” Bucky groans low, then lower, “oh fuck.”

He comes, streaking across his own stomach and chest. Steve fucks him through it, until he’s spent every drop and starts weakly begging for Steve to stop.

“Hold on,” Steve says softly, pulling out. For once, Bucky doesn’t watch him, his own eyes shut while he catches his breath. It’s a relief beyond relief when Steve undoes the knots that bind him to the bed frame, Bucky able to sprawl spread-eagled on Steve’s mattress with the ropes hanging loosely from his wrists and ankles.

“Stay there for me,” Steve says. “I’m gonna add a little bit to this gorgeous picture you make.”

Bucky lets his eyes flutter open then. Steve’s next to the bed pulling off the rubber, then licking his own palm with a generous amount of spit. It takes him all of a dozen quick pulls on his cock and he’s coming too, aiming right at the streaks already painted across Bucky’s torso.   
  
“Beautiful,” he says, using his hand to spread the mess together on Bucky’s skin when he’s finished. “You comfortable enough to stay put for a minute?”

“Mhmm,” Bucky says, letting his eyes close again, the soreness in his muscles slowly leeching out now that he’s not bound up like some kind of sex pretzel.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Mhmm.” Bucky drifts, and he’s fairly sure he even dozes off a second when the feeling of a wet cloth on his chest startles him. It’s just Steve though, gently wiping the muck off him before sliding the cloth between his legs to clean off any residual slick and sweat. The ribbon comes next, Steve loosening it from where it sits slack around Bucky’s softened cock.

“You back with me yet?” Steve asks, gently pulling ropes from Bucky’s ankles and inspecting the skin there with soft touches.

“Think so,” Bucky says. He still feels a little like he does at the end of a good Saturday night out drinking and dancing, but he’s less out of it. Steve moves to his wrists.

“Did you like all of that?” Steve asks. “Anything you’d rather we leave out next time? Sitting with me in your mouth? The ribbon? Tying you up like that—I know you asked for that on account of my drawing, but I want to make it clear that just because you think you wanna try something, you don’t gotta like it. Sometimes we like stuff more in our heads than we d-”

“I want it again,” Bucky says. 

“Good. Because you look damned good like that.”

“Can, uh…” Bucky turns the words over in his head, trying to fit them all together how he wants them, and yeah, okay, maybe he is still a little out of it.

“Yeah?” Steve asks, gently rubbing at Bucky’s wrists.

“I just wanna say I really like it when you hit me, Steve,” Bucky says. “And I like the way you make me take you when you’re in my mouth. Would it be weird to pay you just to have you spank me and let me suck you off?”

Steve laughs quietly. “Bucky, please know when I say this that I don’t mean I’m judging anybody who comes in here, because as long as no one’s getting hurt in a way they don’t like, then hey, like what you like _._ But, pal, I can promise you that everything you’ve wanted so far—I’ve had much weirder.”  
  
Bucky rolls his eyes, more at himself than at Steve. “Right, makes sense.”

“I brought your clothes in,” Steve says. “I’ll be at the table, alright?”

“Yeah, alright.” Bucky dresses quickly. He looks a little disheveled when he’s done, but not any more than any other fella who maybe went out for a drink after work.

When he joins Steve in the kitchen, there’s a mug of water sitting next to a plate of bread and roughly cut apple slices.

“Sit and eat something before you go,” Steve says. “Kind of stuff we did tonight takes a lot out of you. I won’t have you passing out on the way home.”

Bucky takes the empty chair and does as he’s told, nibbling on the bread and apples. He’s ravenous really, and it takes a considerable amount of control to just take a bite here and there.

“Bucky,” Steve says gently, “I already guessed you probably didn’t eat before you came here. You don’t have to prove you have table manners, especially not to a guy who’s had his whole mouth on your asshole.”

Bucky huffs a small laugh and takes a comically big bite of apple in response, the fruit crunching in his mouth when he chews it. He toasts Steve with his mug and takes a big sip.

“So, do I get to see it?” Bucky asks, nodding at the closed sketchbook still sitting on the table.

Steve glances at it and then at Bucky. “Yeah, I think so.”

He flips through the pages and finds the drawing in question. It’s clearly done from Steve’s perspective, though he’s beefed up his own thighs a little bit—made them wider and added dark hair. He’s changed Bucky’s face too—adding a sharper angle to the line of his nose, thinning his eyebrows a touch. The lips are Bucky’s though without question, open wide around a cock, one side of his face resting on not-Steve’s thigh, rope trailing down not-Bucky’s arms in pretty little patterns.

It’s hot. Really, really hot.

“I won’t submit it if you don’t want me to,” Steve says. “I know I said I’ve got a deadline, but I’ve got plenty of shit I can send the publisher if you aren’t comfortable.”

“Send it,” Bucky says. “It’s good, Steve. And you didn’t use my face.”

“Pity I couldn’t. Face like yours would sell more magazines than anything I could dream up.”

Bucky feels his cheeks warm and polishes off the last of the bread and apples just to have something to do, washing it down with the rest of the water.

“Do you need more?” Steve asks.

“I think I’ll make it home in one piece.” Bucky smiles warmly. “Guess I’ll get out of your hair.”

“Would rather you stay if you really do need more,” Steve says. “Not that I don’t believe you. But giving you what you need means a lot more than just roughing you up and making you shoot off. This part’s important too, Buck. If you ever find somebody who wants to be with you and you let ‘em do stuff like this, you make sure they take care of you after, alright?”

“Thanks, Steve,” Bucky says. “I really am good though.” He glances at the clock. “I probably got here around 5:30?” It’s a little after eight now. He does the math in his head pretty quickly. “About fourteen? If that clock’s even right. Or if we didn’t do anything extra. Sorry. You’re supposed to tell me what it is and I’m supposed to give it to you, I know.”

Steve blinks at him several times.

“I was still counting,” he says, holding up his fingers where he was using them to figure stuff up. He laughs and shakes his head at Bucky. “Fourteen.”

“Fair,” Bucky says, pulling out his wallet and counting out bills. “You’re worth everything.”

“Something extra for you though,” Steve says, flipping through his sketchbook and ripping out a page before gently folding it into quarters. “A thing to think about for next time. Or for the next time you have your hand down your trousers. Whichever comes first.”

Bucky takes it and tucks it into his pocket before standing up.

“Is it okay if I kiss you good-bye?” Bucky asks.

“Sure, Bucky.” Steve gets up. “See ya soon,” he says, gently sliding his hand around the back of Bucky’s neck and pulling him down into a soft kiss, adding a teasing swipe of tongue that makes the butterflies in Bucky’s stomach scatter in every direction.

Bucky pulls away with a soft sigh.

“Thanks again Steve. For doing what you do and doing it so damn good.”

“Sure thing. Be careful going home.”

“You- well no, not you too.” Bucky laughs, stepping out into the hallway. “See ya.”

The walk home is quiet, the drawing in Bucky’s pocket feeling a little heavier every step. But he doesn’t dare take it out, not until he’s safe and sound in his apartment.

Once he closes and locks the door, he’s careful with it, reverent almost. This is a Steve Rogers original after all, not even a copy. With delicate movements, he unfolds it once, then twice.

His eyes go wide.

“Christ, Steve,” Bucky mumbles. Then he gets out his budget ledger.

**Author's Note:**

> I am on the [Twitter.](https://www.twitter.com/bistarbucky)
> 
> Update: I intended this fic to be complete as is and you can def stop here if you like BUT I can also say that a part 2 is now 100% for sure happening in the very near future if you wanna hit that sub button.


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